Owned by the rink reaper

003

Elio’s POV.

The sound of the locker door clicking shut was final.

I was pinned.

Between the cold, hard metal of locker seventeen and the radiating heat of Rowan Moonstone’s chest, there wasn't enough room to breathe, let alone think. The scent of him—sharp, icy, and masculine—invaded my lungs, making my head swim.

"I asked you a question, Elio," Rowan’s voice was a low, dangerous vibration against the back of my head. He didn't move. He didn't have to. The mere proximity was an assault. "What are you doing in my space?"

I squeezed my eyes shut for a heartbeat, praying the floor would open up and swallow me. Then, I forced my spine to stiffen. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me crumble. I turned around slowly, my shoulder blades scraping the locker door, until I was facing him.

It was a mistake.

He was still in his gear, the bulky pads making him look twice as large in the narrow aisle. His jersey was damp with sweat, clinging to the muscles of his chest, and his eyes... God, his eyes were predatory.

They weren't angry. They were hungry.

"I was looking for a lead," I snapped, my voice miraculously steady despite the fact that my heart was trying to kick its way out of my ribs. "The Rink Reapers' management wants a 'Deep Dive.' I figured the locker of the most controversial player on the roster was a good place to start."

Seeing that Rowan didn’t say anything, either because he was stunned or purely wondering what to do with me, I quickly added, determined to lie my way out, “Call it a research or whatever. Human interest angle. ‘Disgraced Heir Keeps Shrine to High School Glory Days.’ Has a ring to it, doesn’t it?”

If Rowan was offended, he didn’t show it.

His gaze dropped to the locker door behind me, then back to my face. A slow, mocking grin spread across his lips. "A lead? Is that what we’re calling it now? Most people call it breaking and entering, you know."

"It wasn't locked."

"Neither is my bedroom, but I don't expect to find you under my sheets tonight." He stepped an inch closer. My chest brushed his. I could feel the thud of his heart—slow, steady, and utterly unfazed. "Unless you're planning on 'investigating' those, too?"

"In your dreams, Moonstone." I tried to shove past him, but he planted a hand on the locker next to my head, blocking my exit.

"You saw the photo."

It wasn't a question. The playfulness had vanished, replaced by something heavy and dark.

"I saw a piece of high school trash you forgot to throw away," I lied again, my face burning. "Why do you have it, Rowan? Why would you circle me? Is this some kind of trophy? A reminder of the guy you spent years trying to break?"

Rowan leaned down, his face inches from mine. Different possibilities and outcomes ran through my mind. Something shifted in his eyes.

"Maybe I just liked the way you looked at me back then," he whispered. "Like you wanted to tear me apart. It’s the only honest look I’ve ever gotten from anyone in this city."

Before I could find a comeback, the heavy thud of the main locker room doors swinging open echoed through the hall.

"Moonstone! You in there? We’re hitting the showers!" Arnold’s voice boomed, followed by the raucous laughter of a dozen teammates.

The spell broke.

Rowan didn't flinch, but the intensity in his eyes shifted. He didn't move his hand immediately. He waited until the first few players rounded the corner, then he finally stepped back, giving me just enough room to slip away.

"We aren't finished, Elio," he said, his voice returning to that effortless, cocky drawl. "But by all means, run along. I’d hate for you to get caught 'investigating' the rest of the team. They aren't nearly as interesting as I am."

I didn't say a word. I bolted the moment I could feel myself again, my boots hitting the mats in a frantic rhythm. I didn't stop until I was out in the parking lot, the freezing morning air finally hitting my lungs.

I leaned against my car, my hands shaking as I reached for my keys. I had the "lead" I’d wanted. I had a story about a billionaire heir who lived in the past. But as I looked back at the darkened arena, I realized I wasn't the one doing the analyzing anymore.

I fumbled with my keys, finally clicking the remote. The lights of my beat-up sedan flashed, a pathetic contrast to the rows of sleek, German-engineered SUVs belonging to the team. I was halfway into the driver's seat when a black tinted window rolled down just two stalls away.

"Mr. Valentine."

The voice hit me at once. It sounded like Rowan’s, and yet so much different from his. It was deeper, older and colder, with a sharp edge that could cut glass.

Alistair Moonstone,

He didn't get out of the car. He didn't have to. He just sat in the back of the darkened Maybach, his silver hair perfectly coiffed, watching me like I was a smudge on his windshield. Beside him sat a woman in a sharp grey suit whom I recognized immediately—Vera Sterling, the PR shark the Moonstones used to bury scandals.

"Sir," I managed, standing straight. My heart was still hammering from Rowan, and now it was doubling its pace for the man who pulled Rowan's strings.

"I trust your first morning with the team was... illuminating," Alistair said without a smile. "My son can be a handful. I hope you aren't planning on writing anything too colorful for your first piece. We are looking for a story of recovery, as you might be aware, not a gossip column."

"I write what I see, Mr. Moonstone," I said, my voice hardening. The fear was there, but I didn’t let that weakness show. "That was the deal."

Alistair’s eyes narrowed. Behind him, Vera made a note on a tablet without looking up. "The deal is what I say it is. Keep that in mind while you’re 'diving deep.' Some waters are too dark for a journalist of your... stature."

The window rolled up before I could retort. The car pulled away like it had never been there.

Whatever family drama I was caught up in, it was a nightmare, and yet my reality now.